I wasn’t born yesterday.

~The Way of Mrs. Cosmopolite, T. Pratchett


I was born years ago in a snowstorm,

butt first, which explains my perspectives:

right is left, north is south, and so on.

There’s something, too, about winter,

blowing snow that blew itself

into my bones. There are things

you won’t understand

until you are so old

that no one alive calls you children.

The patterns, strangeness of passages,

the way the long corridor winds,

edged with fewer doors.




The Feast of St. John the Baptist


Rain again. Again. Again.

Not the gentle pitter-patter rain, but

the tropical kind, the pounding kind

that washes out roads and birds’ nests,

that splatters mud on the lettuce,

soaks gray squirrels to brown,

gives mosquitoes everything

they need but blood. I can’t

sleep in this rain. It’s something

primeval, some anxiety

about the river rising, roots

rotting, everything I know

being washed away.




Autumn’s vigor will not be spent. I think

each day will be its last. Hard wind all night

and morning comes, still red and gold remains.

Even under gray clouds, the yellow light

pours from the hills. Even October rains

cannot tear the tenacious colors down.

Blackbirds gather to offer their chatter

against the brittle corn. Warblers have flown

away; geese are flying. The winter birds

stay. How is it that autumn now is sweet,

more lingering than spring, kinder than summer?

Winter is a melody I’ve not yet heard,

but I shall sing in time. The seeds are scattered.

The bright green grasses fade around my feet.

April Prompt #9


David #4:  Your secret name, or real name, or secret identity




It has to do with the birds who come to the feeder

outside my study window every morning and the birds

who meet me in the forest and feed from my hand.

And the water that drips from the eaves

and the water that flows in the channel

under the log bridge between the low banks

on the east side of the garden.  The old oak tree

and her squirrel- planted children.

All the different mosses on tree trunks and stones

with their lancelet or oval or hairlike leaves

and the small insects living between their branches.

Opossum tracks and bobcat tracks and fox tracks

and coyote tracks and crow tracks and turkey tracks

and the tracks of the stray cat around the garage.

The way clouds dissipate or grow. Planets

wandering along the ecliptic. The nebula

in Orion, and the star cluster in Hercules

and the stories about Orion and Hercules

and Persephone and Artemis and One-Eye

Two-Eyes and Three-Eyes and Briar Rose.

The stories about Elijah and Jesus. Stories

about my grandmother, my father, neighbors.

The people I overhear in berry patches

and on the street. My husband and son.

My friends. And you, too. Definitely you.


Forgot to post this one:



a non-Ogden Nashy Spring Poem in a form



~stilted, but not Ogden-Nashy  

(“O April Morning”  Really?)


Another winter gone and we are still alive.

Wind blows from the south, driving

urgent geese. So much will be born,

and born again. So much has died.


The south wind blows, driving

the first wild April storm

to wash away the winter that has died.

One robin, brave enough to sing


his wild song through the April storm–

does he rejoice, or mourn?

And am I brave enough to sing,

strong enough to give


(though still I mourn

small things that did not survive)?[]=09o-

Make me brave, help me give

the song I have, O April morning.


Small things that did survive

fly and rustle, singing, warming.

Here’s the song I have, this April morning:

The cold is gone, the birds declare the Spring.


They fly and rustle, singing, warming.

So much will soon be born.

The Earth has turned, and we proclaim the Spring,

Winter gone, and we are still alive.